Selfish
by Eirenei
Summary: Harry is chucked in Azkaban. Who will help him? When will be his turn to be selfish? It's shounen – ai, meaning boy/boy love. Don't like, don't read!
1. SELFISH

_SELFISH_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters of Harry Potter or Bleach ; they belong to their respective owners– I only own the plot and story.

**Summary:** Harry is chucked in Azkaban. Who will help him? When will be his turn to be selfish? It's shounen – ai, meaning boy/boy love. Don't like, don't read!

**Shout Out:** This is an oneshot, although there is possibility of it being continued, if I would be bitten by that particular bug. Anyway, until that time comes, it would be classified under Scrapbook Jewels, where I would stack any crossovers with Harry Potter, but they wouldn't be all with pairings. I will post warnings if there would be pairing, and what kind – slash, hetero and pairing. If you disregard the warnings, don't come crying to me.

* * *

"_It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes... we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions - especially selfish ones."_

Alexander Solzhenitsyn

* * *

Dull green eyes stared into pained jade ones.

"And why should I call upon you?" The young male voice asked the grief – stricken silhouette on the cold, damp ground. "Last I recall you said I was never your Master.'' Jade orbs widened.

"But – But -If you don't, you will – "the whispery voice rose up, hurried, frantic –

"Die?"

The young man shook his head sardonically. "Do you see me as someone who would fear death?" the silhouette on the ground was wracked with choked sobs.

"But you have so much – to live for!" He pleaded with his Master. "Let me help you – "

Green eyes blinked slowly. "I have nothing to live, and everything to die for. Besides, why should I trust you, only to be betrayed again?" his voice was calm – too calm, in fact. And it hurt the crumpled form on the ground to hear it, to know he was the reason for this once strong, honourable man, to be an empty husk of a person he was before.

He stood up. "Go. Find some other wielder – "

His thin wrist was caught in inhumanly strong grip, an elegant hand with long fingernails, and silvery white in a dull light.

"_No_. No, I won't. I won't let you!" the man on the ground looked up at him, desperate jade eyes in the glaring contrast with dark purple eye shadow, shining with nearly animalistic desperation, small, silvery tracks of tears barely visible on pale, elegant-looking face. "I was a fool. A miserable fool to do – that to you. Just – please..."

His voice was broken with grief. The slender hand – slender wrist in his grip was so frail, so unlike that of his Master –

Not grown up, strong and corded with fine muscles, honed from training, but frail, brittle and small, like those of a bird. The man before was now reduced to a malnourished teen, once strong body was now delicate as a finest porcelain, liable to break at the slightest movement on his part.

Once proud, strong face was diminished into sickly pale, gaunt features with blackish purple bags under tired eyes, indicating that he hadn't gotten any good sleep in a long time.

He was clothed in bare rags, with scruffy old cloak thrown haphazardly over his shoulders. He looked every inch of a beaten, defeated spirit who had no qualms about submitting to the eternal sleep that was Death.

Only his posture was as proud as ever, looking quite out of place on the forsaken being which was in such miserable state as he was.

The blood trickled slowly from the nicked cut on the wretched figure. And the white and purple cloaked man gulped at the sight.

"I – "He began lamely.

Jaded emerald eyes looked at the lamenting figure in front of him seriously.

He seemed to be well and truly sorry for what had he done.

He looked just as magnificent as he had on the day he had first met him.

Tall, regal-looking, clothed in white and purple ensemble, his skin pale as a moon, with serious face, purple eye shadow and those piercing jade eyes.

Messy chocolate brown strands of hair surrounded slender face with thin lips and straight nose, meshing slightly with the rich gray of furry collar.

And somehow... the picture of perfection was ruined with the heartbroken desperation of the man.

The blood trickled from the small wound his nails had nicked – really, the man's only imperfection was his set of infinitely sharp, twelve inches long pieces of weapons that were his nails.

He remembered only too well his fascination with the man's nails.

He remembered, only too well, his death at the hands of this man, the sharp nails gutting his stomach, the spike of pain and then dull agony when his innards were lying under him slick and pulsing with blood and then, the darkness falling upon his stunned mind and oblivion –

He remembered the taste of betrayal in his mouth, like ashes and blood and something bitter –

He remembered this man coming into his cell somehow, looking at him with sorrowful eyes, so unlike those hard, indifferent, cold jade orbs that were his last memory before oblivion –

Closing his eyes, he fought the urge to rip his wrist out of that delicate looking hand, the urge to scream and back away, and scream and scream and scream –

Scream until his throat was raw with fear and anger and fury and terror and oblivion –

Shaking his head from the mindless ponderings, he looked at the kneeling person in front of him.

He blinked; time was running out. His head hurt and soon, they would be here to take him, Light or Dark, he cared not.

They would come here, to reclaim and destroy the weapon they had forged with their mindless struggles. His head was, despite the throbbing pain, clear, and wryly, he wondered, if that was side effect of being so near death.

How_... amusing._

Slowly, he blinked.

Idiots, the lot of them.

_Murderer. Betrayer. Filth. Freak. Freak. FREAK._

The litany echoed in his brain, strangely soothing for being composed of such hurtful words.

"Why won't you let me go?"

This time, he was honestly, curious.

"You know I am not the same, as I once was. So why come to me, when you could have a wielder already?" Green eyes were clouded with memories of violence and rare times he was... _happy._

Was he?

The spirit bowed his head. A trickle of blood slid down, from that fragile arm, down, to the silvery white skin and he was reminded of the time when his hands were soiled with more than this minute amount of blood.

When his pale skin was red and slick and warm with the liquid of life, his nostrils inhaling the bittersweet scent of iron and copper and something like death.

When those green eyes looked into his jade ones – so surprised, betrayed – _dismayed_ with his... betrayal.

The memories nearly made him sick with their clarity. Even so long after committing this... sin, he was haunted by them – he was hounded by longing – when he had seen the Ryoka fight alongside his Zapankuto – it was the second most painful thing he had ever experienced.

The Ryoka was so stubborn, so wilful, and for a moment, Muramasa was tempted to offer himself, to be used once again –

What stopped him from doing that, anyway?

Was it Zangetsu, his hand on the Ryoka's shoulder, the sword and wielder one in the dance of death? Like he had been once before, with him...

He gulped. "I am aware that you have... changed. " A nervous lick of pale lips. "I changed, too." He fought the urge to lower his eyes. "But without you... there's only half of me. "

A disbelieving snort.

Jade eyes flashed with irritation. "Do you think I liked it?" he hissed out, his quiet voice even more whispery. "Do you think I liked being a fool for so long? Contrary to your belief, I am not infallible or omniscient. "He nearly snarled at the stunned youth. "You and I, we were tied together, for better or worse -" He yanked the slender body down, unmindful of the pained wince of the green – eyed man.

"– I was foolish once, to disregard the bond between us. "

Now, they were face to face, furious jade orbs staring into stunned green ones. "Somehow, we got a second chance, and I, for once, don't intend to waste it!"

A stunned silence.

Muramasa breathed harshly. It was satisfying to see his wielder so stunned, finally shaken out of his apathy. He would feel a pang of regret at the feeling of loss on his face, emerald eyes wide with dismay.

"I don't care who are you now," He spoke out again. "Be it Kuchiki Kouga, a noble of one of noble clans of Seireitei or Harry Potter, a wizard in Azkaban - I. Do. Not. Care." He growled out. "I don't care if you never call upon me - I will be with you. I will follow you, even if you don't want me to. But damn it, I _DO _care about you throwing your life away as if it were a worthless shinai!"

"Oh, _NOW_ you care!" Harry spat out. "You - I was _NEVER _your Master. So don't ever presume to – "

His tirade was cut off as dry chapped lips descended on his snarling mouth.

He blinked, dumbfounded.

A kiss.

A.. Kiss

And then, he was lost –

'_That bastard - !'_ Harry whimpered with the intensity of the kiss.

It was so, so wrong, and yet so _right_ – like he had found a missing piece of his soul. Even as Kouga, he hadn't felt such overwhelming wholeness like he did just now.

Mouth mashed together, teeth clashed and tongues duelled with each other. It was infinitely better than his kisses with Cho or Ginny. It was perfection.

Finally, they parted, panting lightly. "You... fucking idiot." Harry managed to get out, as their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling together. "Damn it, why did you have to do that?"

An arrogant smirk made Harry bristle weakly at the idiotic, arrogant, selfish Zapankuto. "You know my name, Harry – Kouga, whatever you are called now. Use it."

"No!" Harry snapped out, peeved. "You've gone too far!"

The smirk widened. "Have I? You never were my Master, Harry." The smirk softened into a small smile. "But you were everything else."

Dumbfounded, the wizard blinked.

'_Everything else?'_ The last two words echoed in his still fuzzy mind.

"W – What do you mean?" He managed to get out weakly.

"Everything else." Muramasa confirmed quietly. "My brother. My friend. My family. My lover. My partner. My light."

With each softly spoken word, Harry felt himself become more vulnerable, his resolve to die fading.

"Stupid," Harry managed to choke out, his eyes prickling with unshed tears. Before his inner eyes, there flashed his life – as Kouga, as Harry and Muramasa was starkly outlined, shining like the brightest star in the dark winter sky.

"That's me," Muramasa agreed softly. "What a pair are we, ne?"

Snorting, Harry punched him weakly on his chest, but didn't refute the question.

Closing his eyes, Harry sighed as he snuggled into the white and purple clad body, inhaling the scent of blood and dew, regret and hope – he didn't even know that regret and hope could be described in scents, but somehow, they were.

A part of him was disgusted with himself for so quickly giving into Muramasa – the same Muramasa who used and then betrayed him, killing him in the process.

That Slytherin part of him was currently screaming and clawing at the walls of his conscience to get the hell away from the man and never return.

But he was tired. Tired of being hurt, of having to take care of himself, of scraping the bare minimum allowed just to live, of being alone –

There were so many things that had broken him and he was too tired to piece himself back again.

He was beyond caring for his survival now. And for once, he would go with the flow, for once, he would forgive, not because he was told to forgive, but because of his own volition to do so.

He smiled, as he asked the question.

"Hey... Can I be selfish?"

/End – Owari/


	2. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW

_WHAT HAVE YOU DONE…_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own the part of used lyrics; they belong to their respective owners. (Darn…)

**Summary:** Harry is chucked in Azkaban. Who will help him? When will be his turn to be selfish? It's shounen – ai, meaning boy/boy love. Don't like, don't read!

**Shout Out:** Okay, there is another part of the Muramasa/Harry story, and I hope you enjoy it. As for other projects, I will pick'em up, when I will have time… still have tests to go through…/grumbles/ Anyway, enjoy!

_Would you mind if I hurt you?_

_Understand that I need to…_

_You've turned into my worst enemy_

_You carry the hate I don't feel…_

_What have you done now?_

_(Nightwish – What Have You Done)_

_

* * *

_

The Dark and Light forces were in a deadlock, with the Dark forces winning, no thanks to sheeple of the so-called Light side. Said sheeple were now very sorry about disregarding one Harry Potter's warnings and shunning the aforementioned Hero, now Martyr of the Wizarding Britain. The problem was, they were in status quo now, and it would take very little prompting for the scale to turn either way. Not even Hogwarts, the Bastion of Light, was safe anymore; but ironically enough, Azkaban had remained one of the last neutral points in the entire territory shenanigans.

Even if Dementors had deserted the ill – spoken about prison, it remained cold, damp and filthy, something of a nightmare out of the Wizarding Britain – werewolves, Death Eaters, and all-around criminals; the scrouge and very little innocents, and among them, there resided one Harry James Potter.

He was so tired… Blearily, haunted green eyes stared half-heartedly at the damp, grey wall. He shivered; prompting the body to embrace him, humming a lullaby into the skeletal youth's hair. It was a stark contrast - the figure, clothed in white and purple remained pristine, no matter the filth that was caked upon his charge.

The youth was better looking than he had been upon the confrontation with his… companion, but not by much. They enjoyed their closeness, knowing that their time of solitude was coming to an end.

They didn't speak much; Harry's throat was already damaged as it was and his companion wasn't the chattiest fellow around.

Instead of that, they kissed, nuzzled and cuddled; their actions speaking for themselves well enough as not to need words.

The cell was small, but still larger than cupboard Harry had spent his first miserable years of his life in. There was not much light either; making the place just as bleak and uninhabitable as its' first impression of it portrayed it to be.

Something heavy was in the air, heavy and fragile, like silence or breath waiting to be broken.

They waited.

* * *

The war was turning out supremely bad for the Light forces, particularly one Order of the Phoenix.

They were solemn: maybe that wasn't the right word. They were scared stiff. And guilty. It was a maelstrom of emotions, but the most overwhelming one was fear, and guilt.

The old man with the white beard was showing every bit of his age, even his clothes were solemn, dark blue with discreet silver hem as its sole decoration, instead of the boisterous prints and colours the aged Headmaster usually wore.

The next man was clothed in black. He wore a scowl on his face, but instead of looking fierce, his face portrayed only exhaustion, deep lines of worry carved into sallow skin which was now colored an unhealthy shade of off-yellowish white. The black hair was slightly greyed at the temples, and the black robe, usually so impeccable, was thin and frayed-looking.

The family of redheads was wrecked with nerves, the same as the girl with bushy brown, shoulder length hair. They were the ones who were feeling the worst, as they were the ones that rejected him, hadn't believed him and scorned him, and now, they were paying the price… in spades.

The gangly-looking, freckled redheaded boy was hugging the shaking bushy-haired young girl – nay, young woman now, for the war didn't spare innocence in anyone. His light blue eyes were dull, and his left hand was… waiting, he didn't have it anymore. He had lost it on one of the bigger attacks of the Death Eaters. He was lucky to survive, he had been told later. The raid had taken lives of many.

And for the first time – when he rested in the hospital wing, he had wondered if he had been wrong, and the one he scorned, had been right.

He was clothed in Muggle clothes, with dark maroon robe over them. He still disliked the colour, but in those times, a man couldn't afford to be particularly picky. The girl in his embrace trembled for a moment, before calming. He wished that he could tell her that this was only a bad dream, an ugly nightmare, and when she would wake up – when they would all wake up, it would be only a memory, a dark memory, and maybe a very vivid one, but in the end, only a memory they would forget after the cup of good hot chocolate or tea.

The redheaded girl was pale, paler even than a ghost, with big dark eye bags under her eyes. She was biting her lower lip nervously, pale fingers moving restlessly about, playing with the end of the frayed red rope that was called her hair. She had formed a bad habit of tugging and twirling her hair, until she splintered them, and the end result wasn't pretty. She had grown, and if anyone would tidy her up, gave her a good dose of rest, they would find she was quite pretty under that desperate exterior of hers. She was thin and nervous now, jumping at the slightest sound, like certain much hated rat.

The amber-eyed man was looking even worse than he had previously. His wolf was beating him up for the loss of their cub, and the man accepted the punishment – more like torture – wholeheartedly. The result was, his teeth was now yellowed and sharper that it had ever been, the canines longer, and the usually light brown eyes were now permanent amber. The nails changed into black claws, and he also had sharper sensed, which sometimes tortured him immensely. Both he and the wolf mourned the loss of their cub, and both of them swore that if the cub would be still alive after extracting him out of the hellish place that was Azkaban, they would do everything in their power to protect their cub, and making him happy. And if that meant going against the old coot's orders, they would do so.

The stern woman was thin now, and her hair was fully gray. She didn't walk around proudly like before, but her gait was defeated, like an old, wounded lioness. She always prided herself on being rational, but that one momentary loss of rationality would haunt her for the rest of her life.

The red-haired woman wept silently on her equally red – haired husband's shoulder. The debt was now insurmotable, she knew, and she mourned. She mourned for one of her lost children and for the lost chances that would never be.

The blonde young woman was snuggling into her husband, scared, confused and guilty, knowing that in the next few hours, they would find out their future.

* * *

Azkaban was old, creepy and drifty, as it always had been. The two Aurors who were traipsing in the building, were wishing that the hellish experience would end soon; the sooner the better.

The dark-skinned one, a tall, athletic looking man with clearly shaven head, was walking briskly, dark eyes looking around cautiously, and one hand having the wand on the ready.

_CLATTER._

He whirled around, pointing the wand on the culprit, a curse on the tip of his tongue, when he saw who it was. A green -haired young woman was lying on the floor sprawled, apparently she got tripped by the one of the uneven stones. The man sighed exasperatedly. _»Tonks! « _He berated his companion, his voice gruff. The green-haired woman cringed, and laughed sheepishly, while she rubbed the back of her head. »Sorry, sorry, « She chuckled, but her eyes were uneasy. The man eyed her drolly. »Try not to make love to any more nooks, corners or crannies, alright? « He remarked dryly. How in Merlin's name the Ministry labelled Tonks as one of their most competent Aurors, would remain an eternal mystery in his mind.

She pouted. »Geez, no need to get so huffy on little ol' me, boss, « She crossed her arms in front of her chest, grumbling slightly. Upon seeing that her companion didn't heed her little fit worth his attention, her almond blue eyes widened, and she scrambled on her feet, wrestling with the too long coat. »Wait! Hey, Kingsley, Wait for me! « She shuddered at the echo.

»Creepy,« She muttered, before hurrying after her superior. »And I _so _am not making love to nooks crannies and whatever else you have in your dirty mind!« She spat back at the amused Auror. As soon as she finished speaking, her right foot slipped on something slimy. Luckily, Kingsley had good enough reflexes, being an ex-Beater, to catch her effortlessly. »You were saying? « A dark eyebrow lifted mockingly.

Tonks growled.

* * *

An hour later, they found the cell. It was the darkest, dingiest, and most smelly little thing they had had the unfortunate privilege to see. Tonks gulped. »If that is how it's outside, I don't wanna find out how it looks on inside, « She shuddered, barely repressing a disgusted squawk at seeing the dirty, slimy substance almost touch her hair.

Kingsley didn't reply.

The door was locked old – fashioned, and it was almost embarrassing that the two wizards had to use an ancient-looking key, which creaked horridly in the locket, as if complaining against being used. But for some reason, magic didn't work on that kind of doors; some historians speculated it was because Azkaban was once an ancient fortress of Goblin nation.

But back to the present. The door was heavy, and almost inhumanly cold against their hands. They had to use all of their power, just to move them – and then, the door gave in. The pair almost fell in the room, after momentarily losing the balance.

But they were in now.

And apart for their harsh breathing, there was no sound.

»Where is he? « Tonks questioned. The cell was surprisingly clean, in comparison with the hall, but still dark, dingy and…cell-like.

_»Lumos. «_ She intoned. The weak light illuminated the small place. »Harry? Are you here? « She called out. Gulping nervously, she shuffled around.

The cell looked so alone, so empty… was he even there?

Or had they been tricked?

»Search. « Kingsley commanded, his voice sharp, not betraying the unease he felt at the sight.

They had to find him. They just _had_ to –

He stumbled.

Tonks snickered.

Kingsley grumbled but then, his curiosity won out, and he set on touching the culprit of his little misfortune.

»Making love with nooks and crannies now, Kings? « Tonks' voice was a little hysterical.

But the dark – skinned man didn't pay mind to her. His focus was on the strange grey and dirty lump of… something he had stumbled upon.

_'A fabric. Drab, dingy, but – '_ Kingsley's eyes widened. '_Could it be…?'_

His hands slid around hurriedly, unmindful of dirt and anything and everything else.

Hair – matted, dirty, smelly – neck – thin, far too thin – thin body, concave –like stomach - breath –

»Tonks! « He called urgently. The girly was searching the other corner, singing a little ditty, even bouncing a little.

_/Maybe all Blacks were crazy_,/ Kingsley thought grimly./ _Regardless of parentage_./

» - and crushed its' head! _What, _Kings? « Tonks called back impatiently. She blinked at the expression of his face.

»I think we found him. «

She paled. »Oh, Merlin. « Hurrying over, she almost slipped, spat out an unladylike curse, and then, she dropped on her knees near Kingsley and the messy lump he was holding carefully in his lap.

»Is that… Him? « She whispered all traces of previous madness gone.

Kingsley wordlessly removed the filthy mop of hair. Under it was a gaunt face, too small, too young, and yet too old – pale, dirty, tired, and on the forehead, there was a scar in the shape of bolt.

Pale lips quirked sardonically, when the man tried to open his eyes.

»Took you long enough. « The voice croaked out. »What have you… _done now_?«


	3. JUST LIKE YOU

_JUST LIKE YOU_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters of Harry Potter or Bleach; nor do I own this song. They belong to their respective authors. I however own this story and its quirks.

**Shout out:** Third part is out; I am currently working on the fourth. And thanks for the support, you really are the best. By the way, I am writing the story, so if you don't like how it's going (carnivores especially (i.e. bloodthirsty ones,)), you don't need to read it. That especially means those, who are allergic to SLASH – meaning, boy/boy love. (Harry/Muramasa, as if you didn't knew already.) Gotta admit, this is kind of an experiment, in "what if", universe, so... Enjoy!

**Warnings:** Already done, SLASH, morbid themes, and confrontation of Harry with those who had betrayed him.

* * *

_I could be mean  
I could be angry  
You know I could be just like you_

_I could be fake  
I could be stupid  
You know I could be just like you_

_You thought you were standing beside me  
You were only in my way  
You're wrong if you think that I'll be just like you_

_ - by Three Days Grace  
_

_

* * *

_

They waited anxiously for Harry to wake up. The 'rescue squad' had returned successfully, retrieving Harry safely. However, there were some oddities happening at the extraction process.

Those doors – nobody in their right mind could open them; they were too heavy and magic-impervious. When Kingsley had reported, Dumbledore paled stark white, as the dark-skinned Auror described the cell.

It was an infamous oubliette, the cell for forgotten prisoners – not forgotten per se, but whoever was thrown in that special cell, it was doubtful that would come out without outside help, and what was worse, if the prisoner was a wizard, the cell had sucked out their magic, and it wasn't uncommon that those few who were lucky – or unlucky enough to be rescued, were suicidal or went completely mad.

The oubliette was designed for the worst prisoners. You could come in, but you couldn't come out. So it was even stranger that they could get out – so easily. Tonks said that the door opened, as if it were an ordinary door, nothing usual – which was impossible. The door was firstly too heavy, there was nobody to help the two Aurors from the outside – and it baffled Dumbledore that they could get out with such an ease. Harry was out – his magic was depleted, Madame Pomfrey reported grimly, and it would take time to get it back on its previous levels, of at all.

But that was not the worst of it. Harry's physical state was deplorable. His body was weak, bones brittle with the absence of sun and healthy meals, and his growth would never achieve his year mates – not that it had before, anyhow. His skin was caked with filth and some odd wounds were infected, the old wounds were healed, even if it was poorly done, with no magical intervention – moreover, it seemed that his healing had been prevented by some kind of dark magic. His skin was paper white and brittle at the touch, like ancient sheet of papyrus. His hair was matted with filth and grease; reaching to the youth's back and apparently used as some kind of a poorly constructed blanket. The green eyes were unfocused, and Poppy feared that the damage was final – that Harry had become blind. And that was just a part of it. His muscles were deteriorated, and it would take months of intensive therapy just to get Harry to partially move on his own.

They knew it would be bad, but this –

It was a disaster.

* * *

The dark-eyed man was watching the youth silently. It was surprising – and not in a good sense – how Potter – Harry now – had changed. The boy was lying in the bed, his face starkly white even among the bleached starch linens of hospital-issued covers. His youthful face was sunken in, revealing the fine boned structure that reminded him of Lily's face. So delicate, like crystal...and yet, so alien looking. It was like the youth there was someone else, some stranger that was accidental casualty of the cruelty of this world. Under his eyes, there were eye bags, dark purple in colour, indicating long-term insomnia. The ribcage was delicate, revealing the concave of stomach, even with the fluffy covers thrown over the body. Something squeezed his heart uncomfortably, as he thought about what the boy had to suffer through to come to that miserable state.

This was no James Edmund Potter. This... boy had none of his father's arrogance and braggart posture like the elder Potter had. If anything, the boy was shunning the limelight something fierce. This was Lily... and yet, it was not. It was a part of Lily, and it unsettled Snape that he knew nothing about the person which was now sleeping under those covers.

Black hair was unknotted and sheared at the tips, leaving the mass of it behind the boy's head in heavy- and a little coarse to the touch- loose waves. Snape was reminded of Lily again, of her fire red hair that she wore unbound, and rarely partially bound, her red mane her only vanity, her pride and joy. And yet... this black hair reminded him of Potter, may the foolish idiot burn in Hell – and yet, it was something else, something alien and different.

He was doubtful about heaping the burden on the boy – and he was proven right. But seeing that fragile form, his doubts returned once more, like hungry Furies, whispering in his ears, that war was lost for certain. They had so little time, and the only one that could save them, was lying in front of him, broken and shattered –

He looked in those green eyes. And blinked.

Those green eyes... They were like Lily's, and yet, they were so unlike her radiant gems of the colour of emerald – those eyes were too old, too broken – Or were they?

Those eyes – were empty. There was no spark in them, no recognition, no fury, nothing. It was like looking in eyes of some statue, and yet, even statues had more lifelike eyes than this - !

He started.

"_Potter!"_ He blurted out. The youth didn't acknowledge him. The Potions Master didn't know what to think. Should he be happy to be ignored, or insulted?

The eyes blinked. Snape shuffled on his chair uncomfortably. Those eyes weighed on him. They didn't accuse him, didn't question him, they did nothing. Just watched him. He felt, as if he was a mouse, staying in front of the great predator, left here to depend on its mercy, and found ...inconsequential. Dismissed.

He exhaled a harsh breath. No mere brat would toy with him like that! "The Great Harry Potter finally deemed our presence worthy enough to wake up." He sneered out, black eyes glittering with challenge.

Green eyes blinked. They were still eerily empty of feelings.

And they stared at each other. Snape was too stubborn to look away, and Harry –

Who knew?

* * *

"You would be glad to find out that your precious little mutt is here," Snape spat out with disgust, trying to rouse the youth.

"He is whining to see you, the same as your incompetent friends." Still no reaction.

Snape growled.

"You are still arrogant, just like your father," he growled out.

Ah. A blink.

"Has that empty head of yours enough brain cells to use your tongue?" He demanded. "But then again, you wouldn't know how to talk, after all. I can't decide if that's a blessing, as I don't have to listen to you babbling about mindless drivel, or you are just incompetent enough to hold your mouth shut. Then again, that would make you a genius, so – "

"Just like you." The hoarse voice spoke. Snape's mouth was open, his face showing his bafflement.

"You know, I could be just like you." The boy spoke out, forming the words with difficulty, grating them past his mouth.

"What do you mean? Of course you couldn't be just like me, you imbecilic brat!" Snape bit out, fuming.

The boy watched him, his face expressionless. "So why are you insisting that I am just like my father?"

That simple question snapped the spy's mouth shut.

Inwardly, he seethed. But then, he looked at the boy. _Really_ looked.

The gaunt face, sickly white skin with deep purple eye bags, black eyebrows, the eyes with colour of green diamonds – not emeralds, those were warm and Lily's, but the boy's eyes were hard, flat and expressionless, like diamonds. Sharp nose, thin colourless lips and black hair, thin, fragile throat...

His fingers twitched. He was tempted to pull the wand on the brat and curse him to the deepest level of Hell imaginable.

Because he had been right.

He could be... just like him.

Abruptly, he stood up, his chair clattering away.

Harry eyed him calmly.

Slowly, the man sat down, his hands still trembling with helpless fury.

* * *

"Well? What did he say?" Molly pressed, as soon as she saw the man. Snape sneered at the woman's foolishness. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" He bit out, revelling in the collective winces. He was enjoying the show, and for once, he was glad that he didn't look at Potter – as some kind of a glorified almighty saviour.

The talk he had with the young man just five minutes prior was very informative. Grudgingly, Snape admitted – if only to himself – that he could come to like this... person.

"May we... Talk to him?" Hermione asked timidly, her hand nervously wringing in her lap. Snape looked at her. "Suit yourself," He said gruffly. "Just don't expect him to be cordial to you."

"H – How is he, Professor?" Ginny asked timidly, biting her lips nervously. She flinched under his heavy stare. Shrinking into herself, she tried to bravely look into those dark eyes, but she was unable to hold the contact for long.

"He is... _lucid,_ if you are asking that," the Potions Master answered her sharply. "Or, as much he could be, under those circumstances. I am baffled that he even _survived_ being in that hellhole in first place." He muttered to himself.

He looked at the crushed expressions of Potter's so-called friends. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

* * *

His eyes were closed, when they entered his room, but that didn't mean he wasn't aware of their presence.

_Hermione. Ron. Ginny._ He had thought them to be his friends. He thought that he could depend on them.

But he was wrong.

It was odd, how dispassionate was he now. It was as if they were strangers to them, he mused silently, and not the ones who practically crushed his heart with their betrayal.

He listened to their hitching breaths – obviously they didn't expect him to be so..._ changed,_ he pondered idly.

Hermione. A bookworm, and reported to be one of the brightest minds of their generation. Sadly, she was ruled by authority and books.

Ron. Jealous of his brothers, and by default, jealous of him, Harry Potter, the one he proclaimed to be best friend of. A bright strategic mind, but alas, he wasn't inclined to use it for more than occasional chess match.

Ginny. Little sister, and so deeply in love with image that never existed, was never real. So obsessed and determined, his little girlfriend – well, _ex-_girlfriend now –

Idly, he wondered where the others were, but then, he mentally shrugged. It didn't matter.

Should he forgive them? Should he let them back into his life, young and foolish as they were? Should he... _trust _them again?

He felt those slender hands on his shoulders, strong and sure, a delicate touch of predator on its prey. The very edges of the tips of those nails were scraping his pectoral muscles gently, a subtle touch of ownership and support. Inwardly, he smiled at Muramasa's possessiveness, but he didn't begrudge the spirit for it. Far from it, in fact, he accepted it and even encouraged it subtly. In those moments, he was grateful that Muramasa had that unique ability of traversing freely between the material and intangible world.

But... He forgave Muramasa. Shouldn't he forgive his friends, too? Muramasa had killed him. They only betrayed him... didn't they?

Foolish, foolish children.

Suddenly, Harry felt weary, feeling every ounce of his years and experiences. In comparison with Dumbledore – hell, even _Flamel_, he was positively ancient, even if he was youthful looking. His years as Kouga weren't exactly a rose-littered path, and this ... life was just as troublesome, if not more so, than the previous one in Seireitei.

He exhaled a weary sigh.

* * *

They were shocked out of their minds, when they saw him. Small, almost petite, thin, skeletal – so different –

Hermione sobbed. They had done that to him, because they were stupid enough to assume first and ask questions later – and until then, it was already too late. She knew about Harry – she knew him, and yet, she betrayed him, thought him to be a murderer - She gulped as those green eyes looked at them.

It was, as if he was looking at them, and yet through them, a truly disconcerting feeling. She shivered in dreadful anticipation and guilt.

"Why are you there?" the question was oh so simple, and spoken with such an indifferent voice Hermione almost wished Harry would scream, yell, accuse her, _anything!_

This... just wasn't Harry.

"Um..." Ron began. He coughed uncomfortably, wishing to be anywhere but there. Shuffling, he quickly looked at the fragile form under the bed covers, and flinched.

"We are sorry." He managed to get out, his voice tight.

Green eyes stared at them, and then blinked. "You are sorry? _Sorry?"_ The youth was incredulous. They flinched. The voice was scratchy and monotone. They prepared for the verbal lashing that would undoubtedly follow the outburst.

"I am sorry, too." Harry said. He said the hopeful gazes in their eyes. "Sorry that I trusted you enough to think you would hear me out. Sorry that I was foolish enough to consider you as friends. Because you obviously were not." Their eyes dimmed with guilt again.

"C – Can we ever be friends?" Ginny stuttered out, her brown eyes shiny with tears.

Harry sighed. "Why?" He asked. The tips of those sharp nails pricked his skin a little bit harder. "Why should I trust you again?"

They were silent. Harry resisted the urge to rub his temples. He frowned instead. "Foolish," he muttered out. "You are wasting my time, and my patience is becoming thin enough as it is. We are at war, and you still want to play forgive and forget games. Get out and leave me be."

He felt the spirit squeeze his shoulders affectionately. "But Harry – "Hermione began shakily.

He looked at her.

And in that one moment, Hermione felt incredibly small. She bit her lips, as her shoulders slumped. "Will you ever... forgive us?" She whispered, defeated.

Green eyes closed. A weary sigh rattled out of the damaged throat. "I don't know, and I don't care. Either I will or I won't; but you lost my trust either way." The words hit them brutally, making them flinch with their bluntness.

Quietly, they filled out of the room, their hearts feeling even heavier than before.

_**/To be continued/**_


	4. BREAKING HEART

_BREAKING HEART_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter (Darn…) nor the ditty... I stumbled upon it when I was surfing Internet, but I think it's an old proverb

**Summary:** Harry is chucked in Azkaban. Who will help him? When will be his turn to be selfish? It's shounen – ai, meaning boy/boy love. Don't like, don't read!

**Shout Out:** Owch /winces/ This chapter is short, but I'll probably upgrade it, when I will have a better version. Or not… I don't know. Enjoy!

* * *

"_Steel and stones are hard on bones_

_Aimed with angry art._

_Words can sting like anything_

_But silence breaks the heart."_

_

* * *

_

It was said that silence was the mightiest and the most oppressive weapon in human communication. And it was true.

They took care of Harry's wounds, but he was silent, no matter the inquiries, pleads and questions. The children – meaning Hermione, Ron and Ginny – were even more devastated than they had been prior to their confrontation with Harry.

The Grimmauld Place was by no means quiet place, what with it being the HQ of the Order of Phoenix, but since the announcement of Harry's innocence, it became quieter and more oppressive, and finally, when Harry was brought in, silent. Even the portrait kept its mouth shut, which was singularly irregular occurrence, thus making the house seem even more ghost-like than it already was.

Remus Lupin was distraught. He remembered, all too well, this disastrous day, when Harry had been convicted... and now, he was regretting it bitterly. Regretting that he didn't hear out his wolf half , regretting that he was so easily swept up with the fury and condemnation of the masses, eager to stone the oh so convenient victim, instead of the real culprit.

He wanted to apologize. He really wanted to... but he didn't. Couldn't. His wolf was pressing him to speak up with Harry, but every time he saw him, even the wolf became strangely quiet and submissive.

Once, he sneaked into Harry's room, just to see him, to watch him for a while. Even now, he got ugly cold shiver down his back, imaginary hackles rising at seeing his unofficial cub so weak and defenceless. And yet, he had the impression if the worse came to worst, this youth would be anything but a damsel in distress, so to speak, no matter his weakened body.

* * *

The physical therapy was torture. Remus forced himself to attend all the sessions, no matter the grief he felt at watching Harry struggle through the workouts caused him.

Harry spoke only when it was needed. Even to Dumbledore, he didn't speak to, not even when the old man apologized for his wrongdoings. He just looked at him, old, weary eyes connecting with the orbs of the ancient wizard – it was only for a moment, but this moment had shaken the old warlock worse than any angry diatribe could.

It was now four months since Harry had been fetched to Grimmauld Place. Four months of silent agony for the guilty wizards and witches residing in the ancestral home of Blacks. Four months... and now, it would be winter creeping around the corners soon –

He looked at Harry once again. The youth was better looking – still a little bit gaunt in the face, but he didn't have the eye bags anymore, and his long hair was braided in a simple French – styled braid, courtesy of Fleur. He was clothed in strange mix of wizarding and Muggle clothes – loose white trousers and gray turtleneck with strangely tailored robe with black belt around the waist. He called it hakama, and if Remus remembered right, it was a part of the clothing in Japan. His face was pale, with some bangs adorning it, the inky blackness enhancing those green eyes – they reminded Remus of a deep lake – no, ocean, what with the shadows dancing in them.

It was strange. Harry had came out of the ordeal mentally unscathed... as much as Madame Pomfrey and Snape could discern. However, there was something strange with him. He was still Harry but not-Harry at the same time. It frustrated Remus something fierce, because he couldn't explain it properly. The most plausible explanation would be that Harry had grown up, but...that didn't explain Harry's loss of magic.

It had been a shock to all of them.

_**/FLASHBACK/**_

The examination was supposed to find our any magical and mental defects Harry may have suffered during his stay in Azkaban.

The gathered people were tense and worried – the extraction of the slight teen out of Azkaban was the easiest part of the plan. However, it all depended on Harry now – whether he was magically and mentally strong enough to survive.

"Well... Let's begin," Madame Pomfrey stated reluctantly. Mentally, Snape had reported that the brat was as insolent as ever, though his mind was guarded with a strange force – Snape's mind probe was halted before it even touched the inner shields, and held at the outskirts, like an annoying mental bug. When Snape persisted, the force evicted him out, with a warning that the next time, there would be no mercy, no matter who would try to gain entrance into the mind. That relaxed them a small bit – no insane person could construct the shields to keep the Legilimens away; however, they were concerned over the manner of the defence employed.

She swished her wand in a complicated and precise pattern, coaxing the magic to come out and play. Her magic, light pink and gentle green, swirled out of her wand, touching the sleeping child, nuzzling him, even going so far as to poke and prod him.

Nothing.

"What's wrong?" Mrs Weasley whispered out, nervously wringing her hands. "Shouldn't there be some... reaction by now?" Madame Pomfrey nodded tersely. "Yes, it should..." She trailed off. "But there are some cases when magic was literally locked in the core and – "

She focused once more, swishing her wand in another delicate pattern, mumbling under her breath. "There should be at least remains, like a shredded thread, to lead us to the core in such case..."

"Poppy, are you sure?" Dumbledore pressed on, his blue eyes dark with concern and guilt. "Yes, I am," Snapped the irritated Med witch. Then she paled.

"Oh, good heavens. May merciful Merlin help us..." She whispered out in horrified voice.

Her magic, which was playfully nudging the sleeping wizard, was now nuzzling the boy into the chest mournfully, as if to lament the loss of it's' counterpart.

The next few words crashed their hopes. "It seems that Mr. Potter has become a Muggle."

_**/END FLASHBACK/**_

Surprisingly, Harry was calm when they told him about his apparent loss of magic. His only comment? "Well, at least Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be happy." He commented in emotionless voice.

"Harry! How could you say that?" A horrified Dumbledore scolded him. Harry eyed the old wizard dryly. "Because it's the truth. And if you don't believe me, my first letter was addressed to me in cupboard under the stairs." He commented, his voice silent and indifferent.

A skeletal arm lifted, the movement making the gathered wince internally at the sight. Thin fingers threaded through the thick black mane of hair, feeling its brittle texture. "But you always said it was for a greater good, didn't you?" He finished, sighing.

* * *

Remus' heart was filled with remorse and self-loathing at that unconcerned tone. It was, as if Harry had finally accepted that he was to be only a weapon for the Light, an expendable thing, a cannon fodder, if you will. His inner wolf whimpered at the stoic figure, wishing fiercely that they would be allowed to hug and comfort their cub.

Shakily, Harry got on his feet, to get back into his room.

"Let me help you," Remus heard his voice offer. But Harry shook his head. Instead he looked at the dark-clad form of the Potions Master. "If you would?" He asked.

Mutely, the man nodded, and with a brisk step, he intercepted Harry's would-be stumble, and lifted the teen into bridal carry.

They watched in silence, as Harry allowed the man he had hated fiercely just three years previous, to carry him out of the living room into his quarters.

And that feeling of mistrust stung more than anything else.

_**/To be continued/**_


	5. TO CALL FOR THE HANDS OF ABOVE

_TO CALL FOR HANDS OF ABOVE_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own the part of used lyrics; they belong to their respective owners. I also messed with lyrics, so…/sheepish/

**Summary:** Harry is chucked in Azkaban. Who will help him? When will be his turn to be selfish? It's shounen – ai, meaning boy/boy love. Don't like, don't read!

**Shout Out:** There, this is the next part, Muramasa/Harry fluff and angst. Enjoy.

* * *

_To call for hands of above  
To lean on  
Wouldn't be good enough  
For me, no_

_

* * *

_

'_Harry...'_ The black haired man heard the mutter near his ear. His mouth quirked slightly, as he felt nuzzle of his companion. "Muramasa." He acknowledged back, his voice warm_. 'Don't you think they've suffered enough?'_ The whiskey smooth voice asked silently. Harry blinked. "Why?" He felt the left arm wrapping around his waist, relishing the warmth it offered. A low chuckle answered him, making him shiver.

* * *

'_I know you, Harry._' Muramasa muttered in the fragile ear, pale lips quirking up sardonically. _'You sulk, but eventually, you forgive. Your wrath is like monsoon – it comes, wrecks destruction on the scale unheard of, and just as quickly, it vanishes.'_ Verdant eyes glittered in the fragile light of the moon, as he embraced the slight body. He was still unused to his wielder's shape – Harry was as fragile as a lark, but on the other side, he relished that he was able to fold the smaller male into his embrace so easily, as to protect him from the hostile world that deemed him unworthy of existence in it.

He felt Harry's sigh. "Maybe you are right. But the truth is, I just don't care." Muramasa listened to Harry's muttering quietly. "They betrayed me, you know? Or better, they betrayed my trust. They – they were my _family_," Harry choked out, his throat tight with influx of emotions. "I would give everything for them, and yet – "The man listened to Harry's chopped sentences, his heart heavy.

'_But you still care for them,_' He concluded gently, gently rocking the slender body in his embrace. Harry nodded, defeated. "Am I bad? For not – forgiving them, I mean?"

Muramasa sighed_. 'No. You are not. They should have trusted you – trusted your word.'_ Those words were coming out of his throat slowly, feeling like sludge of tar scratching his throat uncomfortably, making it too tight and too hot.

* * *

The moonlight was cold, shining on the landscape of white sand and black trees with almost unnaturally straight and pointy branches, the lake glittering with dark blue and black and white shards of colour.

This was Harry's inner world, his sanctuary. _Their _sanctuary.

When Muramasa had first seen it, he was overwhelmed with the difference. Kouga's sanctuary was warmth – peach – colored sand with deep blue lake and clear blue sky that seemed to always be in permanent sunset, along with small seedlings of the trees.

Harry's was opposite. Dark blue, almost inky black sky with cold white stars glittering above his head, looking as if some careless hand had strewn them over the dark expanse of the midnight sky. And there was the moon – sometimes quarter, sometimes full, but always so pale and cold –

The sand was white – silvery white in the light of the full moon now, glittering under the stars, and when occasional breeze shifted the dunes, danced in the otherwise still air. Then those trees – black, hard and cold, and yet, soft as satin, as if in contrast of the threatening branches which pointed at the sky accusingly, the eternal guards, eternal monuments to the person he was now holding in his arms.

* * *

It was heartbreaking, seeing Harry struggle through his issues with them. Muramasa knew. Harry hadn't expressed it so, but the loss of magic hurt him. Harry had been used to magic, it was his only faithful companion through the life – the life after Muramasa had betrayed and killed him. And yet, Muramasa couldn't regret his loss, because it enabled him to find Harry, to come to Harry, to claim Harry as his.

* * *

Those dreams, of Kouga's previous life, were result of magic draining away, and the canal, which was previously clotted with magic, was slowly, bit by bit, cleansed, rebuilding the connection between them, calling the Zanpakuto to his master.

Muramasa had been overjoyed and fearful, when he first found out about Kouga being reborn, Kouga existing again. But there was also a matter of Kouga acquiring another Zanpakuto - as far as Muramasa knew, all souls were reborn, thus the chance for the soul remembering its previous life, were next to nil.

The first time, he was able to materialise himself to Kouga, he was shell-shocked. He expected anything – anything but that broken shell of a child in a cold, bare room, and in a prison, no less.

Kouga was now Harry – Harry a child, Harry an innocent convict, Harry a wizard – at the last description, Muramasa's throat tightened with fear – what if it was too late? For a wizard to lose his magic was a sure fire way to descend into madness.

Whoever it was, they spared the small teen from the cruel fate, instead binding Muramasa to him with bonds that were stronger than steel, for they transcended time and space, they were – forever.

For Muramasa, there would be no one but Harry. He would be Harry's and Harry would be his. And may Heaven and Hell have mercy upon the ones foolish enough to try to separate them.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled the unique scent of his wielder – ashes and vanilla, a strange scent but it calmed him. Destruction and creation. He was serious when he told Harry that he was his everything.

* * *

Harry sighed. It was strange, how easily he trusted this man. Yes, he should have been more careful, but what was wrong with one more mistake in series of the screw-ups he had already done in his life?

When he was in the cell, he was thinking about his supposed family and their betrayal to him, agonising over the minute details of his trial. But then, the dreams came. It was always in the night, always leaving him cold and disoriented and feeling older than he should have felt, more experienced and more - what?

It made his head hurt with confusion, but anything was better than thinking about them. Harry didn't know then, but soon, he began to connect the dots about the strange dreams about strange place, strange people and even stranger happenings. At first it didn't seem to be so, but those memories were the part of him, that should have been forgotten somehow, but it was... awakened, for the lack of better word. He knew, that when the soul in Seireitei died, it was reincarnated, but without their previous memories. But something with him had gone wrong – maybe it was that his Zanpakuto turned on him and killed him, and it had unknown effect on his ... passing on.

Somehow, he had been reincarnated, seemingly without memories and reiatsu, as one Harry Potter, to his parents. He had magic, as inherited by his parents.

And then, it came that evening when all changed. Voldemort, he remembered, tried to kill him. But how do you kill someone that was a shinigami in their previous life? The void, caused by the absence of his Zanpakuto, grabbed the strange, reiatsu-like energy, and began siphoning it off– only to rebound it back on the caster as it found the sickly green energy to be incompatible with the energy print, left by Muramasa. The small bit which remained, tainted the void with its' presence, but otherwise, doing nothing.

This small bit later reacted with the presence and emotions of Voldemort, as it acted like a pseudo – bond, like a shinigami and Zanpakuto had. But when Harry had been chucked into the prison, and more importantly, into the oubliette, it all changed.

The oubliette was powered by the prisoner's magic, slowly siphoning it off of its' resident. The process was painful, making the victims that were closed into that particular cell, magic-less, and in most of the cases, also driven them to madness.

But Harry had just that sort of bizarre luck. He had lost his magic – but in the process, his pseudo-bond with Voldemort was broken, as it had been sustained by Harry's magic and with the loss of his magic, there was nothing that could sustain the bond.

In the process, the canal – for the lack of better word - had been opened. It was, as if the mask he had worn his entire life, had been torn off his face, and there stood a new person – an old person, really, but new in perceptions, memories and experiences. He was Kuchiki Kouga, captain of the sixth division, head of the Kuchiki clan, one of the strongest shinigami to ever walk the Seireitei, and betrayed by his own Zanpakuto and yet, he was also Harry Potter, a wizard, now Muggle, and the hero, burdened with saving the world that once condemned him for speaking the truth.

For a few weeks, he had stumbled between the two identities', wondering what was real and what was false, what was right and what was wrong. But slowly, his memories meshed together, blending into the intricate tapestry of experiences, feelings and desires, forming a conglomerate, built from two persons - it really had been only one person, but his soul had essentially lived two lives, so Harry deemed himself as a mesh of two different angles of the same soul.

And with that, there came a heap load of troubles. The first one was – who else – Muramasa. With his new – old? – memories, Harry remembered Muramasa's betrayal as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. It was a shock, to see the spirit he had been killed by, look at him with so much remorse. He didn't want to – didn't need to have any more bonds that would hurt him. Muramasa had been his pride, his joy and his friend, and it had been unfathomable to Harry, just why the idiotic spirit had to go rogue to prove something –

But Muramasa had been here, when _they_ were not, he apologized, when _they_ didn't and he helped, or at least attempted to help when _they_ turned away. He still remembered those words –

"_I don't care who you are now," Muramasa spoke out again. "Be it Kuchiki Kouga, a noble of one of noble clans of Seireitei or Harry Potter, a wizard in Azkaban - I. Do. Not. Care." He growled out. "I don't care if you never call upon me - I will be with you. I will follow you, even if you don't want me to. But damn it, I DO care about you throwing your life away as if it were a worthless shinai!"_

But what really jolted Harry form his self – imposed funk, was a kiss. Never, ever, would Harry imagine that a kiss could be so many things at once. An apology, a declaration, a plea... In both his lives, he was alone. And it had thrown him off his game, feeling full, complete and so many other things – but the most resonating one inside his brains was that he was not alone, would never again be alone or lonely, for however long he would have to live.

* * *

They danced around each other's feelings, treading cautiously between friendship, companionship and something else; they both didn't dare to speak out loud, for the fear of losing it and damaging their fragile truce irreparably. Harry knew what Muramasa wanted, and Muramasa knew what Harry wanted. But both of them were too cautious, too scared and too proud to make a first move into unknown.

Trust was a fragile thing, doubly so now, when the final confrontation was looming on the horizon.

Harry sighed, snuggling into the warm embrace of his Zanpakuto, a small smile upon his lips.

Muramasa suppressed a shiver of desire at Harry's unconscious snuggle into him.

Even since that kiss, he was keenly aware of Harry – or better, keenly aware of his wants for the young hero. He made an honest attempt to get to know the green-eyed youth, and the more he knew about him, the deeper in love he fell with his wielder. It made him simultaneously guilty and excited – guilty, because he had betrayed his trust, when Harry was still Kouga, and excited, because he... hoped.

Hope. Such a strange thing. When he had dared to hope? When he had dared to..._ live?_ Muramasa smirked ironically at himself.

"Muramasa?" He heard Harry's concerned voice. Inwardly, he resisted the urge to cringe – obviously his partner had picked up on his tumultuous feelings.

'_Harry... Why did you forgive me?' _His voice was heavy with memories guilt and insecurity.

* * *

Harry blinked. "What?" He asked, baffled. "Why are you asking me that? And why now?" He turned around, to see the pale, moonlit face with glistening jade orbs.

'_I know, if I were you,' _Muramasa continued heavily, not really looking at him_, 'I wouldn't be so... generous. But you... I – I betrayed you and you were prepared to give me another chance, despite the possibility that I was only bluffing and –_ 'He gulped.

Harry blinked. "Why?" he repeated dumbly. He looked at the uncomfortable Zanpakuto, trying to discern the reason for this... particular question. "Do I _need _a reason?"

Muramasa fought the urge to twitch. Instead of that, he shook Harry by the shoulders gently, but harshly enough to let him see he was serious_. 'Yes. Why was I given forgiveness, and they didn't? Why was I deemed to be worthy of your trust and they weren't? What makes me so different?'_ His whispery voice rose slightly at the last few words.

Harry growled, pissed. "Would you rather I forgive them, and kick you into whatever hole you crawled out of?" he demanded, green eyes narrowing dangerously. That made Muramasa growl, but the spirit quickly clamped the uncharacteristic sound down his throat.

A tense silence settled between the two of them. Inhaling sharply, Harry looked away from those demanding jade eyes.

"Because I wanted to. Because I was tired of being alone. Because, for once in my life, I wanted to be selfish, and to do something I wanted to do, not that others told me to do, from whatever reason they deemed I had to do this or that." He bit out, still tense, his voice sharp. "And because I changed. You... changed, too. I had a feeling I could trust you with my life."

Muramasa let out a disbelieving laugh. _'Just because your gut told you so!' _He challenged, his wispy voice bitter_. 'If you think to control me again – '_He spat out, white teeth bared in a ferocious snarl,

'_ - You have another thing coming!'_

With that, he pushed the teen away, looking dispassionately as the youth was sprawled on the glittery sand.

He told himself, that those green eyes were not hurt, that it was just a play of light and –

Oh, who was he kidding!

* * *

They kissed. Again. This kiss was different – painful, bitter, full of hurt and anger and bitterness and fear, and it made Harry dizzy with what it contained. It was black, it was white; it was right and oh so wrong, it was joy and it was sorrow, it was sanity and madness, all in one.

His lips were hurting, being bitten harshly, and then soothed with that warm, clever tongue.

"You – fucking –_ idiot_," Harry panted out, squirming beneath the spirit. "You are so full of _shit_, it isn't even funny. Why would I control you?" He snorted at the question. "How I ever fell in love with you, I'll never know." He panted out, arching into this warmth, strength and danger.

The body above his stilled. Harry gulped_. /Oh, shit./_

'_Say that again?'_ Muramasa requested, his head bowed, so that Harry couldn't see his eyes.

"Why would I ever control you?" Harry repeated green eyes wide. He bit his lip, as the spirit squeezed his wrists a fraction tighter, the uncomfortable feeling becoming painful.

'_No. The other...'_ Muramasa whispered his voice barely audible to Harry's ears.

Harry blushed. "Uh. Um, I'd rather not." He squirmed, but a warning squeeze of his wrists placated him.

'_Please...'_ Green eyes widened at the plea.

"How I ever fell in love with you, I'll _– Mph!_ "And his lips were seized into kiss that made him see stars.

This kiss was... Absolution.

Harry groaned into the kiss, his thighs parting, as to cradle Muramasa's body near his body, the willowy shape bending above him, embracing him, conquering and surrending, and Harry's fingers itched to touch that silky, messy hair, but his wrists were still being held above his head and –

Arching his head back, his eyes barely slits of green, he whimpered as his throat was nibbled and suckled on, before his arms were suddenly free and -

His eyes widened with wonder, as he felt the fabric on his shoulder become wet. "Muramasa... Are you crying?" He whispered, astonished.

That messy head lifted, emerald green eyes looked into jade ones, filled with tears. The pale face was messy, a little bit flushed, silvery tracks of tears still visible, and those sensuous lips were a little bit puffy and the lower lip was being nibbled on by strong teeth, before it was released, and a small, tremulous smile appeared.

'_You... You really want me? Love me?'_ Muramasa asked his eyes wide with disbelief and happiness.

* * *

Harry blushed. "You don't mind?" He asked his voice small. Muramasa smiled. This shinigami – wizard, person – whatever, beneath him – wanted him. Loved him, even. And his heart, so empty, was suddenly full, filled with warmth and content_. 'No. I don't mind.'_ He whispered back. _'Just so you know, I am very possessive of what I deem mine.'_

Green eyes widening, Harry chuckled. "Then it's good that I don't mind being yours." His hands stroked the wild mane gently, making Muramasa purr with the gentle sensations.

'_Forever?'_ Muramasa asked hopefully.

Green eyes became serious. "Forever is very long time. Are you sure about that?"

Muramasa scowled_. 'We've wasted enough time,' _He growled out. _'Forever is nowhere long enough for us.'_ He kissed Harry gently; as if afraid the slender youth would disappear at the slightest touch.

Harry smiled. "Forever is it, then." He was rewarded with a warm kiss that quickly escalated into a heated one.

_/And maybe, /_ he thought hazily, while he was being kissed_, /spending forever with Muramasa wasn't such a bad idea. /_

And then, he was lost within new sensations.

_**/To be continued/**_


	6. WHO WANTS TO LIVE FOREVER?

_WHO WANTS TO LIVE FOREVER?_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters of Harry Potter or Bleach; nor do I own this song. They belong to their respective authors. I however own this story and its quirks.

**Shout out:** The story is slowly nearing its conclusion. I have some trouble with epilogue, so it won't be out so fast, but I hope that it would be worth the wait.

**Warnings:** Already done, SLASH, killing scenes _(Yay...?) _and sometimes confusing POV – s. Be warned, I don't explicitly state whose POV is whose, because I write it along as the story goes. So please, no complaining on that theme!

_**PS:**_ I want to ask you, guys: some of you have questions, and I would like to know if you want to have answers written to you privately, or should I explain things in the _**Shout Out**_ section? Thanks, and onward on reading!

* * *

_Who wants to live forever?_

_Who wants to live forever?_

_Forever is ours today_

_Who waits forever anyway?_

_

* * *

_

Time is a strange thing. When you want it to last forever, it's short, and when you want it to be short, it stretches into uncomfortable infinity. Those tense months of Harry's recovery had been swinging between uncomfortably forever and now. The therapy was a bitch to get through, even more so, because they were forced to conduit it without magic most of the time. Harry was still fighting his inner demons in the shape of his ex-friends and one particular werewolf and headmaster.

Muramasa was helping him as much as he could, but even he had his limits. It didn't help that Harry was feeling guilty for forgiving him, and not forgiving his friends. Sometimes, Harry felt justified in denying them what they so desperately begged from him, but sometimes, he felt lower than a scum. It was a confusing mess of feelings and memories, and it didn't help that Harry had, for all practical purposes, lived through two lifetimes– if anything, it made it harder to understand and solve.

* * *

Most of the time, Harry was alone in his room, staring blankly at the wall, while he was in his inner world, talking with Muramasa, and training his reiatsu, trying to get as proficient as he had been before Muramasa –

Well, it was all in the past, now. But Harry still couldn't forget that he was old – older than his ex-friends, and older than the headmaster. It didn't matter he had been only a young man, when he had died the first time, he was still older and adult at that, with all the privileges and duties his status had marked him with. On one side, he could understand their motives, or at least, Kouga could understand. But his other side, his Harry side, was hurt and betrayed, angry at their lack of faith and overwhelming fear of him. Those two sides were unanimous in one thing – even if they repaired their relationship, even if he were once again friends with them, there would still be a deep chasm between them, no matter the bridges they would have tried to build across. Harry was simply too old, too experienced, and too adult, to constantly lower himself on their level of understanding and thinking.

They were still children, no matter their experiences, Harry surmised. And when he'd concluded that, he felt as if a great weight fell off his chest. He owed them nothing. Where he was, where he went, and to where he would go, they wouldn't – couldn't follow. He would leave them to their lives, and he would continue his own life.

And then, other adults. He had straightened out Snape's perceptions of him, and even found the man could be a decent company, if given a chance. They understood each other, even if sometimes, the Potions Master looked at him suspiciously, wondering just what had changed Harry from immature, spoiled brat to the responsible and … dare he say,_ adult_ person he was now.

Headmaster was… the hardest one. Harry had trusted him, but his trust had been broken so many times, he was wary to believe the old man on his word alone. The old man was feeling guilty, that was for sure, but Harry wasn't certain if that wasn't another one of his harebrained ploys for the greater good. He understood that Dumbledore was human, like everyone else was, but that still didn't erase the feeling of hurt at the memories of the same man deeming him guilty. Maybe he was spiteful, but Harry thought headmaster knew him better than to assume him to be a homicidal murderer. He had been naïve once, but now, thanks to that infernal cell, he was anything but naïve.

Finally, there was Remus. Harry was frustrated for a long time on that front. Remus was his only connection with his deceased friends, however thin it was. If he hadn't gotten back his memories of his previous life as Kouga, he would most likely accept the scruffy werewolf back into the fold. But now, his life as Kouga, his connection with Muramasa, changed his perceptive enough to keep Lupin at the arm's length, no matter the man's efforts of worming back into his circle. The werewolf was… persistent, but Harry stood firm on that issue. Remus had no clue what he wanted to be part of, and even less, that this part was exclusive of him.

Sighting deeply, Harry stretched out. "So this is how it feels – the last day of my life," he muttered out. From the Order's buzzing, he found out that this was the day of final confrontation. He caught Muramasa's jade eyes watching him briefly, as he stood up, already searching for clothes to wear.

* * *

Muramasa watched Harry's …_ ritual._ It couldn't be described as anything else. For Kuchiki Kouga, dressing up was the part of… getting into the appropriate mental state. When he was dressing up, Kouga was vanishing, bit by bit, under the official clothes of Captain Shinigami, and when he finished with the last piece – the kenseikan which was carefully stuck on his head between the unruly locks of hair – he became Kuchiki Kouga, the head of the Kuchiki Clan and Captain of the sixth division. It always irked the Zanpakuto, even in Kouga's – Harry's first life, the one in Seireitei. And, baffling enough, it also relieved him, as no one would know his wielder more than he did.

But now, this ritual called a small smile on his lips. He placed his hands on the slender shoulders, clad in black shikaisho and red scarf, the garment distantly reminiscent of Kouga's old uniform. Once again, they would be together – in life and death. Green eyes looked into his jade ones and Harry smiled at him. "Ready to go, partner?" He asked, and Muramasa had a sudden case of déjà vu, and for one small moment, it was as if nothing happened – Kouga was still here, with his cocky smirk and self-assured attitude, ready to take on thousands of Hollows, with Muramasa faithfully by his side.

And yet, now it was different, it was... more mature, as if all those scenes before, were only preparing them for this one last stand, the last grand scene, before forever. He looked at the slender youth, those emerald eyes, and he felt a gentle smile pulling at his mouth. "Are you nervous?" He asked, jade eyes glittering mischievously.

Harry snorted disdainfully. "Nervous? Me? Never." Green eyes looked up at him. "Not when I have you beside me." He retorted silently. Muramasa sobered at the last sentence, feeling intense warmth permeating his chest. "You have me." He agreed silently. "Forever."

The shielded eyes looked up at him, a warmth flashing through them for a moment, before they closed off once again. "I know, Muramasa. Me too." And then, he strode to the door, a familiar sword materializing itself in his hand.

This was it. The last battle.

* * *

Hermione was nervous. In her mind, she repeated, again and again, all those spells, maneuvers, attacks, counter-attacks, and desperately, she wished she wouldn't have to do that. She wouldn't have to get out and fight against them. For one moment, she wished she would be an ordinary Muggle girl, finishing her high school, getting GCSE's highest scores and preparing to get into Oxford, studying to be a lawyer, or maybe a doctor. But here she was, shaking in her coarse brown coat, her hair in messy braid and counting minutes until the final showdown. Her eyes looked at her right, to Ron. The gangly redhead was messing with his wand – manticore's sting and redwood – mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath. His hair was dirty and greasy, and freckled face faintly green with fear. He would be handicapped, what with the loss of his left hand, but Hermione still hoped he would be alright.

* * *

Ginny was biting her lips, not caring about the taste of blood in her mouth. This was it, and they would be alone. Even if she had done such things – missions – before, every time she was waiting to jump into action, her stomach rebelled, and her lips were bitten until they bleed. She was clothed in dark trousers and drab pullover along with dark grey, scruffy cloak which smelled of dust and stale air. And right now, she felt exceptionally alone. Every time, she had done that, came back, she wondered, just how on Earth could Harry bear with this tension, this uncertainty and fight or flight impulses. Every time, when she came back – with scruffs, broken bones or blood on her clothes – sometimes her own, sometimes of her friends and enemies - every time, when she was laying curled up in her bed, she wondered, how he could do that, alone, and without help, one against many, against overwhelming odds. Every time, she felt so weak, no matter how strong she became – in comparison with Harry, she felt downright pathetic. She looked at Tonks, at Remus, at the twins and Charlie and then Bill with his pretty wife – not so pretty anymore, the war washed away her beauty, leaving only tired, scared and haggard shell of a buxom blonde Fleur had been before. Ginny wanted to be vindictive, truly she did, to remark something about the blonde witch with capital B not being Miss Perfect anymore, but she was too tired to spit out the acidic barb. Besides, it wouldn't matter. In a matter of hours, they would fight for their lives.

* * *

Luna's eyes were clear for once, clear and haunted, and her radish earrings tinkled mockingly in the small breeze. Her long flaxen blonde hair had been cut to her ears in a pageboy fashion, making her face look older than it was. She was absently polishing her wand, muttering something to Blaise – the Italian Slytherin, who was nodding at her words, occasionally adding his two sickles in. They were, surprisingly enough, a pair, and if they survived, they intended to wed. Luna was also pregnant, two weeks right now.

* * *

Cho was silent. Despite of her wailing at Cedric's death at the end of Triwizard tournament, she was now calm and collected; too calm and collected, in fact. She was clothed in the armor her ancestress wore in numerous battles, earning her family honor and respect among the people of ancient China. Even if the armor was scratched, a little bit broken and battered, it was polished, the black plates glinting dully in the small light. She stood alone, her lips moving noiselessly, as she prayed for the spirits of the fallen, and her beloved Cedric, to protect her, to allow them to win.

* * *

Terry Boot was hunched in some corner, his hands calmly assembling the small Sig Sauer, after making sure that the enchantments would hold until the end of the battle. The pistol was charmed to have a never ending supply of the bullets and the bullets themselves were silver for werewolves and sharp wooden shards from wood for vampires. His face was scarred terribly, because last month, he had been caught by some werewolf, which thought it would be funny to play with its prey, and raked its' claws over Terry's face, shredding the delicate muscles and nerves irreparably. Since then, Terry had a burning hatred against werewolves – Professor Lupin, he barely tolerated, and even then, there had to be someone present in the room, just in case.

* * *

Oliver Wood, who had returned to be an assistant coach for Quidditch, was grimly staring into the wall, numb. He had lost his entire family to Death Eaters two years prior, and he had become a shell of that lively Quidditch fanatic he had been before. He also became the nightmare for every vampire that crossed his path – his family had been taken, tortured and drained by vampires. Since then, Oliver had been on holy mission to exterminate the vile species from the face of Earth, no matter what it took.

* * *

Trelawney had been a casualty, along with Sprout. The badgers had taken the loss of their Head of House quite badly, almost causing a revolt, when Dumbledore suggested that Slughorn take over the Hufflepuff House. Instead, they elected Professor Sinistra Vector – tough, but fair woman, who taught Ancient Runes. And even then, they relied more on inter – house structure than anyone outside their little circle, to help them. Their leader was, surprisingly, Susan Bones. The previously chubby strawberry blonde had lost most of her 'love handles', so to speak, and now reminisced on her Aunt Amelia with her manners. She reined Hufflepuffs in sternly, but always with fair hand.

* * *

Marcus Flint was a surprising choice for the leader of Slytherins, but since that poncy Malfoy junior had slinked off to become Death Eater, the silent brute had taken the leadership and made a surprising step of reconciling with the other three Houses. At first, the things were uneasy – more like downright tense, and everyone expected the situation to explode at any given moment, but it wasn't so. Whoever had entertained such foolish ideas, was immediately and cruelly dealt with by the Ice Queen of Slytherin and Marcus' right hand herself, Daphne Greengrass. Surprisingly enough, the Slytherin leaders weren't a couple – Daphne was dating once shy Gryffindor klutz and terror of Potions' class, Neville Longbottom, and Marcus was on and off with Susan Bones. Or so the people whispered; but no one knew for sure. Nor did they want to find out – both of the leaders of their respective Houses were quite terrifying when angered.

* * *

The Gryffindors were the ones who had been feeling out of their depths the most, when the news, that Harry Potter was innocent, trickled into the public. Guilt and confusion was overwhelming, and with the former friends of the Boy-Who-Lived being in their House, the things were bordering on lynching for quite some time. The only thing that held the foolish lions back was that they were also guilty of the same crime as they were. The House was led by Neville Longbottom, assisted with Hermione and Ron on occasion – otherwise, Neville's true right hand was surprisingly, Seamus Finnegan. The Irishman was one of the few that believed in Harry's innocence, even going so far as to deck one Ronald Weasley in the main hall for badmouthing Harry. Ron would have been a mince meat, if Neville hadn't had interfered, and along with Dean Thomas, pulled furious Seamus off from the dumbass. It didn't help that Ron just had to open his big gob and mock Seamus' relationship with Dean. Seamus had called him some unflattering nicknames in his native language right back, which had Professor McGonagall pale a starkly white, before she became red with apoplexy, and then she dragged off the foolish youth to the worst detention in history of Hogwarts. Gryffindor had also lost the record number of points, and for the first time, since Harry had been sorted into the Gryffindor, the House of lions found itself on the bottom of the admittedly short list for the House Cup. On the other hand, Slytherins hadn't had such entertainment in ages, though.

But right now, they were waiting. In the great hall, there was heard only breathing, and occasional murmur.

* * *

Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore looked over the people gathered in the Hall. It pained him, that they were so young – they should be concerned with homework and lessons, and the next Hogsmeade weekend – except, he knew, for certain, that for some people there wouldn't be next Hogsmeade anymore. All the classes from the third year up were here, to fight, to kill, and maybe, to survive the oncoming storm. The old man regretted many things – but he never regretted not fighting for the young man more. He should have gone against Winzegamot, against the world, but the old fool he was, he didn't do nothing. He should have done more for the young Harry, but he hadn't; and now, they all were doomed.

He smiled a bitter smile, blue eyes dimming with regrets and sadness.

When he had seen the young man for the first time, since Harry was dragged off to Azkaban, he had been appalled. Harry had been emaciated – even worse than the survivors of Nazi concentration camps – and that was saying something. He was all dirt and angles, thin face with deathly pale skin and purple, almost inky eye bags that were silent witnesses to the youth's insomnia.

But the most terrible was the look in those green eyes. It reminded the old headmaster of the look in weary horse's eyes - which was tired to the bone, wishing for death to absolve it from his miserable existence in this world. And yet, there was also that terrible look of a survivor – dark, wary and so much older than Dumbledore himself was.

And that scared him. Dumbledore was cowed in very rarely, but this young man made him wary and terrified. Even as a Muggle – not a Squib, because that would mean Harry still had latent reserves of magic, albeit too small to properly channel – as a Muggle, a person without magic – it was like looking at something grotesque, or unnatural. The wizards functioned on magic, worked with it, and they couldn't imagine having to live without it. The unfortunate ones, usually Squibs, were disregarded, because they were seen as… unnatural and twisted, a Nature's mistake, second worst only to Muggles.

And yet, the youth had persisted, through the decimation of his magical core, and he was still sane, which was a feat that was unheard of. But those dark eyes were even darker, and harsher, like cold diamonds, and filled with knowledge of something Dumbledore feared to reveal, because that would mean admitting his greatest and most damning failure.

Right now, he thought absently, Harry was in Grimmauld Place, left to the mercy of the old screechy portrait and fanatic house elf. He had wanted to have Harry in Hogwarts, but Harry was a Muggle now – it was surprising, that he could see the Grimmauld Place, despite the anti – Muggle wards having been placed on the old house. Right now, Dumbledore would give anything – everything, to get back in time and stop himself from committing the greatest mistake he had ever done.

But it was too late.

* * *

Harry growled. This was stupid! He glared at the demented house elf, trying to ignore muffled chuckling of his partner. "Let. Me. Go." He tugged at his cloak, his eyebrow twitching as Kreacher stubbornly clutched at the fabric. "No! Kreacher won't let go his Master. No, Kreacher won't, won't won't…" The old elf mumbled his eyes wide with sheen of craziness in them.

Harry fought the urge to twitch. "_Kreacher –_ "He growled warningly. Big, watery eyes looked at him. "Why does young Master want to leave Kreacher all alone? Had Kreacher done something wrong?" A small clawed hand grabbed further into the fabric. Harry sighed. "Kreacher, I am not your master. I do not belong here. So I have to go – and I would greatly appreciate if you let me leave."

This pitched Kreacher into a whole new fit.

"No. No, no, _NO!_ Young Master belongs here, Kreacher knows it! Why is young Master _so stubborn?_" He shrieked, making Harry wince a little.

The Shinigami sighed. "You must have mistaken me for someone else, Kreacher. I am _not_ Regulus!" He said sharply. He didn't have time for those things – there was a battle out there and he was needed, damn it!

Kreacher paused. Large eyes looked at the imposing form, so much like his deceased young Master, and yet so powerful, more powerful than Regulus had ever been…

And this Master, his _beautiful_ Master was denying he was Kreacher's Master - ! Sharp green eyes stared at Kreacher, oh so sharp, and so beautifully cold and cruel – the eyes of the Black, the eyes of his Mistress, and oh, how he missed his Mistress, her beautiful voice, her commands and Kreacher was alone, alone,_ alone;_ and those filthy Muggle lovers dared to sully the ancestral house of Blacks with their filthy paws, loud, uncultured voices and complaints and sickening_ purity,_ sickening white magic and Kreacher couldn't take it anymore – if there wasn't Mistress' portrait in the house, Kreacher would already killed himself, yes, he would, he would, would, would, like a good house elf, he was the best house elf of the Ancient House of Black, and he had been serving so well, even little Master Regulus said so, he was even trusted with that deliciously dark locket and –

* * *

- And then, the filthy Muggle lovers had brought Him, his Master and Kreacher was so overjoyed, and he waited for the Master to call upon him, to evict the Mudblood lovers out of the house and being his dark reign, but the young Master was being stubborn and sometimes, Kreacher had seen the other man talking with his Master, and he was jealous and afraid – the Master's man had long, cold silver claws and could stop Kreacher from moving from doing anything, when Kreacher only wanted to put a glass of water on his Master's bed table, but the evil man had shattered the glass, sliced it in tiny white and silver ribbons, like snowflakes, and the man's jade eyes promised _pain, pain, pain_ and more _painpain,_ if Kreacher dared to serve his Master again, and this Master's man never slept, he was sleepless – Kreacher was afraid of the man, yes, he was, oh yes, yes, yes, the man was dangerous, and wasn't his Master_ wonderful,_ for having such dangerous man under his command?

* * *

His Master moved forward, and Kreacher jumped, to clutch at his Master's ankles, to beg him to stay, to not leave poor Kreacher alone and Kreacher saw Master's beautiful smile, this was the last thing he remembered, such a cruelly beautiful smile, and Kreacher froze and then, he remembered nothing.

* * *

Harry sighed as he looked away from the body of miserable elf. He didn't want to, but he had killed the poor thing – but it seems it was for the better, because Kreacher's chain was dangerously near to disappearing, and speaking for himself, Harry really didn't want to find out what would be Kreacher's Hollow form.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he exhaled a sigh, his thoughts fleeting to those distant memories, when he was Kouga, Kuchiki Kouga, one of the most promising Shinigami in Seireitei, and the pride of Kuchiki clan. For a moment, he remembered Ginrei's teachings, the old man's expectations and cold silence, and his feelings of being out of the loop – even if he was a Kuchiki, he wasn't a real Kuchiki – but all that passed away, like shadows, passed and vanished, merging with those dark memories that Harry had kept under lock and key somehow – and somehow, it didn't matter anymore. He was Harry and Kouga, and that was enough.

Opening his eyes, the calm, dark eyes looked ahead, as he purposefully strode forward.

* * *

Walburga Black, also called the old hag, banshee and other unflattering nicknames by the Order, was pissed. Those – those Mudblood lovers had been desecrating the ancient property of Blacks long enough and she head to suffer through all of their shenanigans. Of course, being the intelligent and witty woman she was, she got her payback in the shape of ordering Kreacher to cause a mayhem whenever possible and in reporting their plans to Malfoys – at least she had, until that bushy-haired bitch somehow blocked the portrait magic, thus trapping Walburga in her wrinkly, old portrait, unable to do anything worse than screech and aggravate the residents of Grimmauld Place.

She had taken particular pleasure in goading the Mudblood lovers, even more so, when their greatest folly had been revealed. She had been so pleased, that day, when she heard about the innocence of that Potter urchin – she was _ecstatic._ The Light would be finally broken, and by their erstwhile leader at that – this fact was such a delicious irony it left Lady Black in tears of mirth for days to come.

And when they brought the brat himself, Walburga had watched and sneered at the weak little savior – the boy was broken, there was no doubt about that. And this – this was to be the final nail in the coffin of the so-called Light witches and wizards. She ignored the niggling feeling in the back of her skull, that something was not right – something was wrong, and on monumental scale, at that. She had felt that their little savior had no magic, and she hoped, vindictively, that he also lost his mind in Azkaban – it would be an ultimate irony and justice, but the brat just had to go and prove her wrong.

She watched, how the little martyr rejected all attempts of the fools to reconcile with him, and she found herself thinking that maybe the little brat wasn't bad at all, even if it was just about the entertainment value he brought to the dark and dank house. But Kreacher -

The fool elf thought the little Potter was his new Master, and Walburga couldn't do anything to dissuade the idiotic creature from its' thinking. True, Kreacher attempted to explain it to her, but Walburga just couldn't see it. Potters were always light-sided family – why would be the little wannabe savior any different? The foolish child had recuperated slowly, he had no magic to speak about, and he was at least partially insane, talking with someone nobody could see. Kreacher tried to tell her about his Master's man, the one with scary silver nails, who was ever – vigilant at the brat's bed, but Walburga dismissed such words as the tales of fantasy –

But maybe, just maybe, they weren't. She had heard the foolish elf screeching at the brat, begging him to be Kreacher's master – Walburga sneered, resolving to kill the miserable creature somehow, when there was a silence – the kind of silence that was… different.

It was the kind silence that came only with approach of the death.

* * *

She blinked. As far as she was aware, the only persons in the house were the Potter brat and Kreacher… apparently, there was only Potter brat now, but how…? He had lost his magic, hadn't he?

And then, she heard the footsteps. They were faint, and their cadence made her wary. The sound reminded her of her father, Octavian Flint – the man had been huge power in his prime, a true political leader of the Dark wizards of his time. When he strode around, his footsteps were calm and measured, like nothing could stop him –

And the steps approached, and she craned her head, like a curious old bird, dark eyes glittering in the feeble light. She opened her mouth, to sneer out a scathing diatribe, when she saw him.

He was stepping down the stairs, as if that drab, dingy house was a palace, and he was its' owner.

It made her angry and curious at the same time, but she held her tongue, no matter how much she wanted to verbally flay him over his failures.

Even she, as bitter and closed off old woman, stuck to the old customs, still had enough self-preservation instincts to not aggravate this man.

Powerful green eyes flicked at the portrait uncaringly, dismissing Walburga's gasp of shock as inconsequential.

Walburga could only stare. If she hadn't known that he was a Muggle now, she would think him being a Pureblood wizard.

* * *

That wasn't the shell of the emaciated body they had brought here five months previous; this young man before her portrait was a living, breathing embodiment of power. His spine was straight, head held up proudly, the slender body lithe and limber under that strange robe garment with long red silk sash being draped artfully around his shoulders and body. In his right hand, he held a sword – thin, slender – not rapier, of course, but, if Walburga remembered correctly – it was a kata – something. Kataka – no, _katana!_ Yes, it was a katana, one of those strange Eastern swords her husband was so fond of collecting. However, this sword was not one of Cyrus' collection – even if Walburga despised everything that wasn't British and didn't have that aristocratic accent, she knew Cyrus' things as if they were her own.

His hair was longer, and somewhat tamer-looking, and on the right side of his head, there glinted some ornament, enhancing the rich fuchsia colored stripe of hair in which the ornament was glistening occasionally with the wet glint of polished metal.

"Where are you going?" the old woman croaked out. Harry halted his steps. Green eyes looked at the portrait, making the old witch flinch with the straightforward gaze.

"Out." He responded calmly. The sword's blade glinted with bluish shadows as he moved it slightly. "I have to teach a certain Dark Lord some manners," he muttered dryly.

Walburga chuckled, and soon, her little chuckles descended into mad laughter.

"_You, _teaching the powerful Dark Lord Voldemort a _lesson _in _manners?"_ The old hag shrieked, all wariness forgotten. "You are nothing more than a small, weak _Muggle _brat!" Her cawing laughter echoed through the corridor.

* * *

Harry shook his head. Green eyes looked at the madly giggling witch calmly. "Curse your own immaturity from preventing you from recognizing your overconfidence." He told her, his voice silent.

He turned to go, but she stopped him. "And how would _you_, a filthy _Muggle,_ know where to go? This house is sealed, and no one could get in, and no one could get out. Only a Black could open the house again, and dear Bellatrix is the last living one," She sneered hatefully at the youth.

Harry sighed. "Hard is it, then," he muttered. His lips quirked into a cruel smirk. "The last battle is being fought near Hogwarts, old hag. And I have yet to repay you for Sirius." His body was being illuminated by the faint violet aura. He lifted his left arm, pointing at her portrait.

Her eyes widened with apprehension at the violet aura and slight shifting of the winds around the youth's body. It felt like... death, any yet, it didn't.

_"Disintegrate, black dog of Rondanini. Look upon your burning soul and sever your throat."_ The man intoned calmly, the red orb forming at the tip of his pointer finger. **"_Geki."_**

She barely had a time for one last, horror-struck screech, before she was obliterated forever.

* * *

Harry smirked as he looked upon the burned remains of the wretched portrait. It wouldn't bring Sirius back, but it was very satisfying, to demolish something other than inanimate objects that hadn't done anything to deserve his ire.

"And now, for the foolish idiots," he muttered, as he furrowed his eyebrows. Now, he only had one problem – how to get to the battlefield as quickly as possible?

_POP_

"Master Harry called?" Big, bulbous eyes looked up at him expectantly.

Harry's eyebrow twitched.

* * *

He clearly felt the amusement radiating from Muramasa, which managed to irk him some more. _"Oh, shut up," _he grumbled to the Zanpakuto mentally, although his lips did try to twitch upward into a tiny smirk.

It was ironic, that Dobby should be the one to lead him to the battlefield. But somewhat very fitting... if this would work, of course. Harry was a Muggle now, but there was his Shinigami part to consider into the equation; an unknown variable that could burst into their faces at the most inopportune moment.

"Well, here goes nothing," Harry sighed, resigned to his fate. He felt Muramasa's clawed fingers gently squeeze his shoulder. _'I'm with you.'_ Muramasa said his voice devoid of the mirth it had permeated just a few moments ago.

The small, scraggly elf flinched at seeing those long, elegant, deadly silver claws. Green eyes looked at the creature sternly. "Don't mind him, Dobby," the ex-wizard said kindly. "He's just doing his best to protect me. Now, shall we go?"

* * *

A pop later, and the dark hallway was empty of all occupants. The only moving thing was the black smoke, still winding to the ceiling in a search of an exit.

* * *

Harry felt definitely sick. And Muramasa's groan audibly stated the same. _'Are all means of wizarding transportation devised to be torture devices?' _the Zanpakuto snapped out, peeved. Harry chuffed out a snort. "I think they all are closeted masochists," he commented drolly, while he tried to settle his stomach. Taking a deep breath, he listened to Dobby popping away. He looked at the apparition of Zanpakuto – Muramasa _did_ look somewhat green around the edges, which was a wonder for usually pale, almost colourless man. Harry was tempted to be amused, but he knew he probably looked the same, if not even worse.

Dobby had transported them in the Forest – near enough the battlegrounds, and far enough so that they were not spotted outright.

Harry snorted at the thought.

* * *

Voldemort couldn't help but grin in triumph. He was in front of his life-long dreams – only one small step and he would be Master of the wizarding world. He looked around.

His inner circle was quiet, but confident, pale masks looking back at him expressionlessly. He easily recognized both of the Malfoys – the elder by his long mane of straight blonde hair, and the youngest by his hair colour. Lucius was standing beside Bellatrix, who was giggling insanely at the time, already working herself up for the bloodshed. She was licking her dagger obscenely, her mask at the side of her face, crazy violet eyes shining with zeal and pleasure on the withered face.

Once, she was a beautiful woman – the one whom would he gladly took as a consort. But the years in Azkaban had dismantled her sanity into fragments, leaving behind shattered remains of who she had been before.

The Lestrange twins were quiet as ever, Rudolphus hovering protectively over Rabastan, and Voldemort had a sneaky suspicion that the two men were a lot closer that they seemed to be. But he dismissed those thoughts for the latter. Briefly, he felt a flare of envy at their closeness, and he resolved to punish them later with a good dose of Cruciatus.

Fenrir was as uncouth as ever, leering and salivating, caught in his half-man, half-beast form, with the help of Severus' potion. His fur was matted with the dark splotches of blood, and his muzzle was bloody with the fresh red, metallic – scented liquid. It was stretched in a parody of a grin, as the half-canine uncaringly scratched at his privates, not used to wearing clothes in his half-beast form. And if Voldemort wasn't mistaken, the mangy cur was aroused at the thought of causing bloodshed and turning the brats into pups.

Inwardly, he grimaced at the thought. The Giants were already dispatched to their positions, along with vampires, Dementors and other creatures the Dark Lord managed to... convince to join him in his cause.

Red eyes closed for the moment, as he thought of the boy.

The Potter brat. Of course, Voldemort was wary of Dumbledore – but again, he had a good reason to be wary of the old coot, but the whelp had more than earned his respect, too. In a way, he acknowledged the boy to be his opponent, and he had been seriously disgruntled at the fickleness of the wizarding world, them having the galls to turn on their own. But on the other side, he was happy that the biggest obstacle was out of his way, and so ironically _deliciously_ at that. He chuckled out a small, dark sound, underlined with a hiss, making his followers shudder at the sound.

"Rest in Hell, brat," he chuckled out darkly, before he opened his eyes, crimson orbs searching through the assembled ranks in front of him. "Let's begin."

**_/To be continued/_**


End file.
